


a view of other windows

by hardlygolden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Pre-Canon, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2010-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlygolden/pseuds/hardlygolden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is in the midst of working a case – and even though he suspected another person would go missing, he never thought it would be him. His boys can't see him. It's as simple and as fucked-up as that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a view of other windows

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: Title from _Evergreen_ , by Ryan Adams. In-text reference to _Cat's in the Cradle_ , lyrics by Harry Chapin.  
> Written for sams1ra in the spn_summergen fic exchange 2010

"You staying long?" asks the motel manager on the front desk.

"Dunno yet," John replies, and it’s the truth. He's not even sure this is a case, but he’ll be here until he finds out. He reaches into his wallet and slaps down enough for two nights. “Alright to pay as we go?” he asks.

The manager motions with his hands to indicate the relatively deserted parking lot. “As you can see, it’s the off-season,” he says. “You can stay as long as you want, long as you’ve got the cash for it.”

“Okay,” says John.

"Just the three of you?" the manager asks, gaze taking in Sam and Dean, who are standing outside by the Impala. Dean is hoisting their duffels out from the trunk, as Sam inspects the vending machine outside the reception area.

"Yeah," John says, reaching for the pen to sign the room bond. "Just the three of us."

The manager smirks. “Enjoy your stay at Paradise Inn,” he says. Or at least, John assumes that’s what he says - his voice is muffled from the candy he crammed in his mouth seconds before. John’s fairly confident in his interpretation, though – after years living on the road with Dean, John can speak candy with a frightening degree of accuracy.

Still – it’s off-putting when it's an adult addressing you with a mouth full of candy. Cheap motel, John reminds himself. You get what you pay for, customer service included.

*

Five people have gone missing in the last week. In a town this size, that’s not just an anomaly. It’s front-page news. That’s why John’s here.

This is one part of his job he hates – he always feels tongue-tied in the face of another’s grief.

"I'd booked reservations at our favourite restaurant," says Steve Jenkins, and there is a tremor in his voice, a suppressed anguish that John could too easily identify with, if he let himself.

He doesn't let himself. He shifts awkwardly on his chair, instead, and takes a sip of the coffee that Steve hands him. He’s tasted day-old diner coffee better than this.

Steve grimaces an apology. “Sorry,” he says. “Claire always makes the coffee,” and then his hands flutter helplessly in the air for a split-second, before wrapping around the mug in his hands. "It was our anniversary; I was going to surprise her. Then she calls me, says she has to work late. It was obvious she hadn't remembered. I was fairly short with her over the phone, because here I was with this whole plan for our evening, and she hasn't even remembered. But now it just seems so petty. I just want to know where she is, that she's okay."

His grip is surprisingly firm. "You'll call me if there's any word, detective?" he says, and John assures him that he will, of course he will, and tries not to feel like too much of a bastard for giving this man hope where there is probably none left to be had.

If talking to Steve Jenkins was hard, talking to Susan Richards is worse. "Is there anything else you can tell me about Danny?" John says. "Anything at all?"

Susan Richards blows her nose, noisily. John winces, and passes her the tissue box. "Thanks," she says automatically. Then: "I just can't stop thinking about the last thing I said to him. I yelled at him because he'd left his bike on the lawn. I mean, he does it all the time. Did it all the time. But..." she descends into renewed sobs, and John pats her hand clumsily. He's never been very good at offering comfort; especially when it isn't his to give.

The other three interviews go about as well as you’d expect.

*

When John wakes up, the room is quiet in that mid-afternoon kind of way. Means the boys are still at school, means he has a few hours before nightfall.

He hears the boys before he sees them - Sam clattering up the front steps, Dean's low chuckle, the slide of the key in the lock, the thud of Sam's backpack as it hits the floor.

"Afternoon, boys," he says. They're in the middle of some conversation that he's not a part of, but they stop once he speaks. "How was school?"

"The usual," Dean replies easily, kicking off his boots in a smooth motion and sprawling on the couch.

Sam frowns. "It's not the usual. This new class is doing algebra. _Again_."

"So," John says, purposefully keeping his tone mild. "You'll be extra good at it."

Sam shrugs. "It just means they were learning something else," he says. "While I was learning algebra at my last school, they were learning something else. Something I didn't learn. Something my class is probably studying this week, while I'm supposed to sit here at this new school learning something I've already learnt."

John _never_ had this problem with Dean. "You're a bright kid, Sam. Whatever it is, you'll pick it up along the way."

"I'm sick of picking it up along the way," Sam says, and this isn’t an argument John wants to have right now.

"Don't you have homework?" John asks, in a belated attempt at sounding parental.

“I did it all in class,” says Sam, and John braces himself for round two, but then Dean calls Sam over to the couch to watch whatever is on television, and miracle of miracles, Sam drops it. For now.

*

"Dad," Sam says, coming to stand by the table where John's spread out all his work. John looks up, squints to focus.

He's been hunched over his research too long.

He aims a tired smile in Sam's general direction. "What is it, son?" he asks.

"I need new boots," Sam says. "I've grown out of my pair."

"I'll get you some soon," he promises, mentally filing it on their shopping list, somewhere between 'orange juice' and ‘ammo’. "For now, just make do with an old pair of Dean's, okay?"

Sam's lips tighten. "Sure, Dad," he says. "That's _exactly_ what I'll do." If this was on paper, the conversation would already be over, but this is happening right now, in full technicolour surround sound, and Sam's still standing there, staring at him, as if he's waiting for John to _get it_. John has no clue what Sam is waiting for, the only thing he knows with any degree of certainty right now is that if he doesn't get a break soon, another person might go missing tonight, so all he says is: "Is that all, son?"

Something in Sam's smile tightens, brittle, and he says, "Yes, sir,"; walks off, and that's the end of that.

John jams his knuckles into his pounding temple and reads the page for the third time, until the words blur into meaning, and then he grabs a pen and starts jotting down notes, piecing together patterns from newsprint and sheer determination.

*  
John must’ve slept at the table, because he wakes up with a crick in his neck and his head pillowed on the leather of his journal.

It’s quiet – the boys have left for school already. John tells himself he’s glad – a bit of peace and quiet is just what he needs.

*

He's flipping frantically through the pages of his journal, trying to find that newspaper clipping Caleb sent him the other week, it was right there, he saw it five minutes ago, and he hears Sam come into the room but he doesn't look up until Sam speaks.

He wouldn't have looked up at all, if it wasn't for Sam's tone:  
" _Dean_ ," Sam says, low and urgent. "Get in here. _Now_."

John pushes his journal aside without a second thought, rising to his feet in one swift motion, because something is not right. "What is it, Sam?" he barks. "What did you see, son?"

Dean's rushing through the doorway, and he speaks at the same time - "Sam?"

John's not sure which of them Sam's answering when he holds out his hand and points. "What?" asks John, spinning around to stare at the table, scanning it for any potential danger. His journal is right where he left it, next to a dirty coffee mug and yesterday's paper. Nothing unusual, nothing that explains why Sam's staring across the room like there's a live rattlesnake, poised to strike.

"Dad's journal," Sam says. Dean's by his side, now, keeping Sam a half-step behind him, eyes assessing.

"What about my journal, Sam?" John says, stepping closer, purposefully keeping his tone gentle, like he's talking to a spooked horse.

"The pages were _moving_ ," Sam breathes, and Dean's intake of breath is almost drowned out by John's fervent, "Oh, _hell_."

*

His boys can't see him.

It's as simple and as fucked-up as that.

*

John tries the usual clichés, of course. He jumps around. He waves his hands in front of their faces. He grabs them by the shoulder. He calls their names, loudly and often. He starts singing a ribald chorus he learnt in the Marines. He's whistled the tune often enough around the boys, but he never before could bring himself to sing the chorus, in all its explicitly unapologetic glory. If Dean could hear him, he’d be snickering.

He loses it then – just a bit – at the thought that his sons can’t see or hear him. In a final, desperate move, he picks up his coffee mug and hurls it against the wall. It shatters, and he’s gratified by the noise of it, the fact that he can still _act_ rather than just _observe_ – but any momentary pleasure he feels dissipates once he sees the spark of fear on the faces of his boys, and realises how that must have looked from their perspective: a violent motion by an unseen force.

*

He's distantly proud of how quickly Dean and Sam fall into action.

Dean grabs his knife, keeps Sam by his side as they go to the Impala and pull out the rest of their weapons. Sam is obedient, watchful, uncharacteristically quiet.

He's rattled, John realises.

It's only once he’s salted the doors and windows that Dean lets Sam come back inside.

Dean lays his knife out on the table, in easy reach.

*

Sam's sitting in front of the television, flipping through the channels. He’s not watching any of them, his fingers just jamming down on the buttons. It’s a big couch, but Dean sits right next to Sam. He reaches for the remote, pulls it out of Sam’s hand and jabs the power button.

The image on the television narrows to a pin-prick of light before it disappears. John refuses to take that as a metaphor for _anything_.

Dean’s talking, now. "You've seen weirder shit than pages turning by themselves," he says, voice gruff.

"I know," Sam says, hunching his shoulders together. "But not where we live."

This is the part where John would explain that bad things happen in other people's houses all the time, that Sam should have been ready for this, that it's not over yet.

Dean doesn't say anything, but he claps his hand on Sam's shoulder and Sam leans back into him, looking young and lost and seven years old all over again. John wonders if Dean's thinking the same thing he is - that evil's already been in their house - their _real_ house, Sam's nursery, and that night was the first step down this long road they're still walking.

*

John tries to remain detached, cataloguing his boy's unresponsiveness like just another clue in just another hunt.

It's not another hunt, is the thing.

There's a sour feeling in the back of his throat that hasn't gone away since he realised his sons can't see or hear him.

Even though he’d suspected another person would go missing, he’d never thought it would be _him_.

*

"Where's Dad?" Sam is asking, and it’s weird to hear this conversation happening when he’s standing _right there_. It’s the same feeling you get when you hear someone talking about you, when they don’t know that you’re listening.

"He'll call," Dean answers, lips pulled in a tight line.

Sam asks the same question two hours later, when John _hasn’t_ called, and Dean snaps. "I don't know," he says. And it’s not that Dean sounds scared (he doesn’t) – it’s just that John’s not used to hearing that note of uncertainty in his son’s voice. Either of them.

*

After a few hours, Dean finally convinces Sam to go to bed – on the proviso that Dean does too, of course.

"Dean," Sam says, into the dark.

There's a pause before Dean answers. "Yeah."

"Do you think Dad knew there was a ghost in here?”

“We don’t know _what_ it was, Sam. Anyway, it’s gone now.”

Another pause, longer this time. “Where’s Dad, Dean?”

"Dad's out chasing a lead. He'll probably be back by the time you wake up."

"How do you know?" says Sam.

Dean sighs. "I just do, okay."

"But - "

" _Sam_." Dean says, in a harsh tone that John rarely hears Dean use. Sam's staring straight ahead at the ceiling, so he can't see Dean's expression, but John can. He quickly looks away.

Silence, then -

"Dad didn't say goodbye," because Sam can't help himself when it comes to having the last word.

Dean doesn't answer, just rolls to his side, facing the wall.

Dean waits five minutes, then says, soft: "Sam". No response. Dean says again, in his normal voice: "Nice pigtails, Samantha." Sam makes a soft snuffling noise and rolls over in his sleep. Dean rolls his eyes, but he gets up quietly, draws the blanket up to Sam's chin.

John watches as Dean picks up the salt canister and shakes a neat row of salt around the edges of the room. He stands there, surveying his work, fingers reaching for the amulet John knows he always wears tucked under his shirt. As John watches, he shrugs and picks up the salt canister, to dust a second, smaller, circle around the bed Sam's sleeping in.

Dean doesn't go back to bed, after. He drags a chair from the kitchen into the bedroom and sits there, back to the wall, facing the doorway, gaze flicking from the door to Sam, Sam to the door.

He falls asleep every now and then - just for a coupla minutes at a time, nothing restful about it, just his body crashing out with exhaustion - but then he snaps his head up, shakes his head in self-reproach.

Sam's breathing is the only sound in the room.

John steps over the salt circle, releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. "So," he says, as he stands over his youngest's bed. "Not a ghost, then." He didn’t think he was, not really (likes to think he’d remember, y’know, _dying_ ) but it’s still a relief. Means it’s most likely reversible, so he’ll figure it out, because any other alternative is simply unacceptable.

Dean's crashed out again, and John reaches for the spare blanket at the foot of the bed. His hands are steady and Dean doesn't wake up when John lightly settles it around his shoulders.

Dean looks younger when he's asleep - Sam too, but it's more noticeable on Dean, because Sam always looks young, whereas Dean is not a boy anymore, at least not when he's awake.

Dean stirs in his sleep, and John touches his shoulder, gentle, even though Dean can't feel it. "I got this one, son," he says. He hopes it's the truth.

*

It's not the weirdest thing to happen to him. He can lift things. Turn pages, dial phones, open the fridge.

He eats, he sleeps, he pisses.

He's just invisible.

*

 _Of course_ it occurs to him. It’s an obvious solution, when you think about it. He toys with the idea of leaving the boys a note, even pulls out a pad of paper and a pen, spends half an hour staring at a blank piece of lined paper, waiting for words that won't come. What would he write, anyway.

In the morning, Sam blinks sleepily at the wadded-up ball of paper on the table. He looks as if he's about to ask Dean about it, but Dean's staring off into the distance. Probably calculating how much money's left in his wallet.

$17.80. John knows, because he counted it last night: cursed at the total. He had tried to leave, then, a vague half-formed plan taking shape in his mind - lifting a wallet at the local bar, slipping change from the cash register at the late night corner store - moments where his invisibility would be a blessing rather than a curse.

The thing is, he can't seem to get more than a few yards from the motel room before everything gets blurry. He keeps his eyes on his boys, because they're the only things in focus.

If this is what being a ghost is like, John is glad for all the poor bastards he's put out of their misery.

It's only the thought that this situation is temporary that keeps him from going stark raving insane.

Besides: he can’t afford the luxury of a full-on freak-out. He’s got to keep his head in the game. He's still on a hunt, after all.

*

Dean finally convinces Sam that they should go to school – which is a role-reversal and a half. John gets it, though. Business as usual, and all that.

John tries to follow them out the door, but he can only get a few steps past the door of their motel room. It’s like he’s _tethered_. He grits his teeth in frustration as he watches his boys disappear from his sight.

He sits in the Impala for most of the afternoon, hands clenched around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

He’s not used to being the one that’s left behind.

*

He's about to call Bobby, but then he remembers he and Bobby aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment, so he dials Jim instead.

It's a relief when he hears Jim's voice, coming crisp and clear down the phone line.

"Jim, it's John Winchester. Listen, I'm on a hunt, and something's happened --"

"Hello?" says Jim. "Hello, is anyone there?"

"Jim, it's me, John."

Jim's sigh is the last thing he hears before the click of the dial-tone is echoing in his ear.

John drops the phone into its cradle. “ _Shit_ ,” he says, to no-one in particular.

*

It's not the first time he's left his boys alone while he was off on a hunt. Sometimes he’s away for days without a word.

The difference, of course, is that all the other times, he’s been _away_ – as in, _not here_.

It’s not different for them, though, he realises. This is what it’s like, each time. This is the side of his boys he’s not used to seeing, the people they are when he’s not there.

“They get on fine without me,” he says, testing the words out loud, weighing them for truth. They echo in his ears the rest of the day.

There is a weird hollow in his chest.

*

There’s a knock on the door.

“Do you think it’s Dad?” Sam whispers, loudly. Dean shakes his head. “Dad has a key,” he says, and he signals for Sam to be quiet and go into the other room. Just in case. Sam purses his lips together but doesn’t move, and John is suddenly irrationally grateful that even Dean can’t get Sam to do what he’s told _all_ of the time.

It’s the motel manager, standing outside the door, hand half-raised as if he’s about to knock again. He smiles when he sees Dean.

“Your father around?” he asks, his gaze flicking around the room.

“Yes,” says John, for all the good that’ll do him.

“No, sir,” Dean replies. "He'll be back later this evening."

“You planning on staying here tonight?” the manager asks. “Because if you are, you need to pay. This isn’t a charity.”

Anybody that didn’t know Dean well probably wouldn’t notice the way the muscle in his cheek tenses, just for a split-second. John sees it, though. Even so, Dean’s voice is steady. “My Dad will be by to fix you up in the morning,” he says, confident.

The manager stares at Dean for a split-second longer. “Okay,” he says, not sounding entirely convinced but calmer than he had been moments before. “Okay.”

*

“Do we need to load up the car, Dean?” Sam asks, after the manager leaves. John is thinking the same thing. They should make tracks before the manager clues on to the fact that Sam and Dean are staying here unsupervised, and calls CPS or something similarly disastrous.

“We can’t,” says Dean, shortly. “This is where Dad will be expecting to find us, so we need to be here when he comes back.”

“What about the money, though?” Sam says. “Do we have enough for another night?”

Dean tousles Sam's hair. “Not yet,” he says, grabbing his jacket and heading out the door. "Don't wait up," he says.

John makes a motion as if to follow him, but he can’t, of course, so he’s left in the room with Sam.

Sam tries watching television again, but his mind is obviously elsewhere. John isn’t surprised when Sam flicks the television off and reaches for a book – Sam’s always been a bookworm – but he is surprised when he realises what it is. It’s his journal.

Sam doesn’t read it, just holds onto it, tracing his hands across the cover. The expression on his face is old, for all that he’s just a kid.

“Dad _never_ leaves this behind,” Sam says, the instant Dean opens the door. It’s an accusation as much as anything.

The grin disappears off Dean’s face when he sees the journal. “I got the money,” he says, but his voice is flat.

“That’s good,” says Sam, and it is, but neither of them are smiling, not anymore.

John tries desperately not to think what that says about him, that it's more uncharacteristic for him to leave a book behind than his sons.

*

There’s a knock on the door, again. The boys have already left for school, but Dean stopped by the front desk on their way out, with enough cash to cover two more nights, John saw him do it, so there’s no reason for the motel manager to be coming by.

There’s _definitely_ no reason for him to be opening the door and walking inside.

“What the hell are you doing?” John asks, although he’s long ago given up expecting an answer. Unperturbed, the motel manager gazes around the room, then sits down on the couch. He reaches for John’s journal and starts leafing through the pages, stopping to chuckle appreciatively at an entry.

John grinds his teeth and flips the book shut.

The manager blinks in surprise, and John lets loose a stream of curse words. After one overly descriptive invective, involving the motel manager’s mother and a three-legged duck, the motel manager’s eyes flicker slightly towards John.

It’s barely a tell, but John’s been playing poker for a long time.

“You can see me,” John says, testing the manager’s reaction. “You can hear me," John says again, more certain this time,

“Oh, bravo," the motel manager is saying, as he claps his hands together appreciatively. "Took you long enough," and John suddenly remembers which page the journal was open to.

*

"I'm supposed to notice something, aren't I?" John asks, as the pieces fall into place. “Something about my boys.”

"Got it in one!" beams the Trickster - because isn't it _always_ a Trickster, the deus ex fuckyouverymuch machina.

And John’s a father, but he’s a hunter, also, which is why he grits out: “What about those other people – Claire Jenkins, Danny Richards...”

“I didn’t _kill_ them,” says the Trickster, sounding wounded. “I prefer to think of it more as – a cosmic time-out.”

“A cosmic time-out,” John repeats.

“Yes,” the Trickster says. “You know. For being self-absorbed, self-centred, self-motivated. They were so wrapped up in themselves, they weren’t paying attention to the people they claimed to love. Hypocrites, the lot of them. So: I thought I’d give them no other choice than to pay attention.”

“So you’ll reverse it?” John says. “It’s temporary.”

The Trickster nods, and then flashes a grin. “Everything’s temporary, John,” it says. “Including life in general. And your life specifically.”

John knows that Tricksters are demi-gods, and move fast, but he still clings to a vain hope that his fist will make contact long enough to wipe that smug smirk of its face. It doesn’t, but he tries anyway.

"From what I can see, the boys are doing just fine without me," John says, and it comes out sullen in a way he hadn't expected.

"You're not looking hard enough," chides the Trickster, before disappearing.

John curses. Seems like he’s finally found someone who could match Sam in his seemingly perpetual quest to have the last word. He thinks, distantly, that if Sam and the Trickster were to ever meet, the universe would probably implode from the levels of sheer stubbornness involved. Not that Sam is going to ever meet _this_ Trickster, not after John’s through with it.

*

When the boys get home from school, Dean kicks his boots off in a smooth motion, but Sam takes longer, wincing as he tries to lever them off his feet. Dean's watching him, a frown playing across his face. "I thought you were gonna ask Dad for new boots," he says.

"I did."

Dean looks taken aback. "You did?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "He told me to borrow a pair of yours." Sam twists his lips, sour in a way John doesn't understand. Sam's expressed vocal displeasure about many aspects of their life, but his brothers hand-me-downs have never yet found their way onto that list - a fact that John has always respected.

Confusion flits across Dean's face, and then he laughs. John doesn't see the joke. "My boots are exactly the same size as yours."

" _I know that_ ," Sam says, aggrieved. "Dad doesn't. He still thinks I'm a kid."

Dean cuffs him lightly. "You _are_ a kid," he says. "A kid with gigantor feet."

John's gaze automatically flicks between Sam and Dean. Sam is still more than a head shorter than Dean, but he's gangly, no trace of puppy fat. _He's going to be tall_ , John thinks.

*

The boys are asleep when John finally steps outside for some fresh air. He isn’t surprised to find the Trickster there, waiting for him. “They’re growing up,” John says. “I already knew that.”

The Trickster just stands there, smirking. “The _whole_ truth, John.”

John curls his hand into a fist, for all the good that will do him. “They’re growing up without me.”

The Trickster nods, and John’s shoulders sag in something like defeat. “Sam’s the same shoe size as Dean, now,” he says, apropos of nothing and everything. "That's the kind of thing a father should know.”

"A _good_ father, sure," says the Trickster, lightly. "But then, nobody's accusing you of that, now, are they, John?"

John stares at his hands, itching for a stake.

“The whole truth and nothing but the truth?” the Trickster says, behind him. John turns around. “Dean’s growing up without you,” the Trickster says. “But when he’s grown up, he’s going to live _because_ of you. Sam too. Remember that.”

“Since when are you in the business of handing out advice?” John asks.

“Who said anything about advice?” the Trickster says, and then winks.

“I thought I was self-absorbed?” John retorts.

“You're many things,” agrees the Trickster, “but you’re also their father. That hasn’t changed.”

There’s a pause, then, and John doesn’t have the words to fill it. “They’re waiting for you,” the Trickster says, with a too-knowing smile.

“I _know_ that,” says John, because he does, now.

He’s walking towards the motel door when the Trickster calls his name.

He pauses. “ _What_.”

“You’ll be needing these,” the Trickster says, and when it snaps its fingers, two pizza boxes materialise in John’s arms.

John stares down at them. “You’re not as much of a bastard as people think you are.” It’s not a question.

The Trickster cocks its head. “The irony of that statement is completely lost on you, isn’t it?” but it sounds pleased, and John feels that for once, he said the right thing.

*

Dean’s standing in the doorway, when John opens the door.

“Hi,” says John, and it’s inadequate, achingly so, but Dean’s entire face lights up nonetheless.

“Hey,” Dean says, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying to act casual, but for the first time in a long time John sees straight through him.

“Sorry for taking off on you.”

Dean blinks in surprise. “It was fine,” he says. “We were okay.” Sam's sitting cross-legged on his bed, textbooks on either side. He looks up when John enters the room. "Dad," he says, and then: "you bought dinner?"

John hands him the two pizza boxes. Sam opens the first box and pumps his fist in the air. "Yes!" he crows. "My favourite!" He beams at John, and John smiles back, even though he has no idea which of the two pizzas Sam is referring to.

He's going to find out, though.

*

When he steps outside the next morning, the Trickster is still there, eyes glittering in the half-light of dawn.

“Very good, John,” he says. “Sure, some might say it’s too little, too late, but in my book, that’s definitely points for effort. And the pizza idea was positively _inspired_ , wouldn’t you agree?”

John scowls at him.

"Anyway. You've still got one cradle left, John," says the Trickster, flashing him a winning smile. "What shall we say, best of three?" John's had enough enigmas for one day, though, so he leaves that comment untouched. The Trickster’s eyes flicker with something like disappointment, but then he pastes on another grin and starts humming. It takes John a moment to place the tune. Cat’s in the cradle, indeed.

Unbidden, the words of the chorus echo through his mind. _I'm gonna be like you, Dad, you know I'm gonna be like you._

He determines then and there that’s not going to be true, not for his boys. As if hearing his thoughts, the Trickster speaks “There are worse things they could become, John,” he says, and there’s a note of warning there, but John’s too tired to piece it together.

Besides. “There are better things, too,” John says, and for once, the Trickster doesn’t argue – just looks thoughtful, and this time when it smiles, it’s a real one that lights up its entire face.

The sun’s coming up, now.


End file.
